


Patience

by cowboyguy



Series: Still 'verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aphasia, Brain Damage, Community: ohsam, Gen, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyguy/pseuds/cowboyguy
Summary: It’s quiet in the motel room.It’s usually quiet now.





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for nikkitembo's prompt "head injury" in the OhSam [Hurt vs. Comfort meme](https://ohsam.livejournal.com/938193.html) on Livejournal.

It’s quiet in the motel room.

It’s usually quiet now.

He sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Both hands pressed to either side of his forehead, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Sam?” Dean asks, looking up from a stack of books and papers, lore on vengeful spirits and articles from the local small town newspaper. “You okay?”

He looks away, doesn’t answer Dean. Doesn’t know how. There’s a lot he wants to say, and he doesn’t have the words for it.

“Does your head hurt?”

It almost always hurts these days -- even now, there’s a low level twinge settling like a halo around his temples. But that’s not it. He shakes his head.

The one-sided conversation follows its usual path as Dean asks, “Where’s your book?”

Sam casts his gaze around the motel room, spies it nestled underneath his hoodie on top of the dresser. He points a finger in that direction, slides his long legs off the bed and ambles over to it.

Heavy three-ring binder in hand, he settles into a chair next to Dean and thumps the book down on the tabletop. Its laminated front page sits in the clear cover pocket, waiting for him. Little tiles all arranged in a grid, each one with a bright illustration and a word or two beneath it. The text is still incomprehensible to him, but he knows what the pictures represent.

Sam reaches out a clumsy finger to touch a spot on the page and Dean leans closer, ready for input.

“ _More to say,_ ” Dean says aloud, giving voice to the tile that Sam points to. “Dude, you haven’t said anything yet,” he adds with the beginnings of a grin.

Sam slaps a hand on the top of the binder, a gesture of frustration, and Dean shuts up and waits, eyes turned back to the page. Sam tries again, finger sliding between icons.

“ _I want… more to say,_ ” Dean interprets. “You want more words? About what?”

There are hundreds of words in the binder, but all of the text means nothing to Sam. For him, the meaning is all in the image, the placement of it on the grid. He hasn’t memorized them all yet, can’t remember what each little square in its constant, unmoving location means. It’s still new, still a learning process.

Flipping the cover open, Sam pushes several pages aside until the right one comes into view. He taps the clock image in the top corner.

“ _Time._ ” Dean looks up, catching Sam’s gaze. “You want more words about time?” he asks, waiting for the nod.

Together, they go word by word through the page as Sam points and waits for his brother to speak for him, to connect each new picture to a word. It’s tedious, and Sam bounces one knee up and down impatiently, trying to hold onto the question in his mind.

Dean’s voice is smooth and precise. “ _...now… later… minute… hour… how long--_ ”

That’s the one. Sam stabs at the page emphatically, a desperate breath escaping him.

“ _How long?_ ” Dean verifies. “Okay. How long what?”

And the process starts again.

Sam takes a breath, forming the question in his mind. He thinks he has all the words now. He goes through it slowly, taking his time, trying to get it right. It’s quiet except for the rustle of pages turning and the sound of Dean’s voice, slowly voicing for him.

“ _I want… talk... Now... I want… talk… How long?_ ”

As Dean finishes speaking, Sam looks up at him, begging for answers.

Dean’s silent for a moment, staring down at Sam’s hands and the book underneath them. There are no easy fixes to this one.

“Sammy…” he starts softly, and Sam’s face falls, disappointment etched across his features. He gets up from the table, the book abandoned, and paces restlessly around the room, desperate for an answer that is still so far out of reach.

“Okay, look,” Dean says. “Listen to me for a second, okay? Sam. Are you listening?”

Sam nods, exhaling with a wet, shaky breath. He can feel tears forming in his eyes and swipes roughly at them with the palm of one hand, trying to stay focused on listening to Dean.

“We will figure this out, okay?” Dean starts, and Sam kicks ineffectually at the base of the bed, solid on its wooden base. He’s heard that before, and it doesn’t feel like an answer.

“Sam, you gotta give it time,” Dean continues, standing up from the table and sliding his chair back. He moves toward Sam, calm and steady. “This is all still so new. But you’ve got your book -- we’re learning that, right?” He gestures back at the thick binder, full of its mix of the familiar and the unreachable. “We’ll keep working on that. We’ll learn what else works. It’s not over yet.”

Sam huffs in frustration, turning away. It’s not that easy. Nothing feels easy anymore. Dean can be hopeful and optimistic for both of them, but for Sam, it just feels like building a castle one grain of sand at a time. Everything is overwhelming and he’s so tired, still healing and trying to catch up at the same time.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice comes from behind him again, and he flinches at how easily his own name falls from his brother’s lips, when it’s as inaccessible to him as a foreign language.

He’s still for a moment, staring at the blank motel wall. Slowly, he nods, acquiescing to Dean’s vision of hope, recovery, normalcy. But he can’t let it go, has to make himself heard. He turns back to Dean, willing his voice up from somewhere deep in his throat.

“Ah--” he manages, pressing his fingertips to his own chest, then touching his lips. It’s a reminder of the shapes he can no longer form, the sounds that won’t quite fit together, and a yearning for what used to be so easy. He touches his mouth again, desperate to be understood.

It’s enough.

“I know,” Dean answers softly. “I know.” He takes another few steps closer, slowly closing the gap between them. There’s something in Dean’s expression, an echo of the sadness that Sam can feel radiating through his body.

“Dah--” Sam chokes, the closest approximation he can make of his brother’s name.

“C’mere.” Dean pulls him in for a hug, and Sam lets himself be tugged forward, Dean’s strong arms holding him up, keeping him safe.

“You’re gonna talk again. We’ll figure it out,” Dean says against his shoulder.

Sam pushes down the dreaded thought that it might _never_ happen, that this might be the way things are forever. He hardly dares to breathe, body held stiffly in Dean’s embrace, swallowing against the tears that keep threatening to burst out of him. He wills himself not to break.

Maybe Dean has enough hope for the both of them. Until Sam is ready. He tries to hold onto that.


End file.
